


The Chain Trick

by Han_shot_first



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: BDSM Scene, Dom/sub, F/M, Mechanics, Pony Cars, The Black and White Body Shop, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24433015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Han_shot_first/pseuds/Han_shot_first
Summary: “The only reason you’re under Needle is because I need replacement parts either special ordered or hand-fabricated. But I know every single part of my Garron, and ifa manthinks to mess with me,he should think again.”With that, she stuck her Blow Pop back into her mouth and walked out into the humid Braavosi sunshine, her hands stuck in her short overalls, and her feet dancing like a cat, across the Canal Bridge.
Relationships: Jaqen H'ghar/Arya Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 82





	1. In which a man is intrigued

[](https://imgur.com/wsGMXhO)

“How’s it look?” She licked the Alchemist Blow Pop, resisting the urge to bite into the sour apple hard candy coating. She stared past her scuffed black Converse trainers on the stained grey concrete to the man under Needle, her vintage Garron fastback pony car.

The man was laid out on an old garage shop creeper, his dusty gray coveralls displaying no name tag, but still managing to emphasise his long, muscular body. She could see nothing of his face, but that only intrigued her the more. She could envision anyone’s face at the end of that body. Anyone and no one.

She licked the Blow Pop and waited for his reply. When no words came, she became worried and said, “Hey. Did you hear me? I’m ---”

“A man has heard. And a man is busy. Return tomorrow, and perhaps a girl will have an answer.”

The Blow Pop fairly hung out of her mouth. The outrage! She was a customer, and he was ignoring her? She tried again, reaching for all the politeness her exasperated mother had ever tried to teach her.

It came out in clipped Northern cadence, her eyebrows lifted, and her Blow Pop clenched in fingers at her side.

“Can you at least tell me what’s wrong, and how much it will cost?”

A dark chuckle emerged from under her beloved Needle, the precious going-away gift from her brother Jon, and she growled. The Black and White Body Shop had an unmatched reputation for automotive repair and restoration, but if this mechanic’s customer service was any measure of what her bill might look like, maybe she should have gone to Pynto’s Auto Repairs.

She shoved a strand of sweaty hair that had escaped from one of the buns on her head. She put steel in her voice and said, “If you won’t answer simple questions ser, then I’ll take my business elsewhere. Get out from under my car.”

The muscled arms stopped moving, and a huff of annoyance escaped from the mysterious man.

“A girl will pay the Standard Rate, so long as she permits a man not to waste any further time.”

“The Standard Rate?”

A pause, and then the words: “A man has spoken.”

His droll accent was strange to her, but every accent in the city of Braavos was foreign to her. Perhaps his impolite behaviour was customary. Or maybe it was just normal for every mechanic to treat a girl with a pony car with this kind of attitude. She narrowed her eyes and leaned over. Her voice dripped with menace.

“The only reason you’re under Needle is because I need replacement parts either special ordered or hand-fabricated. But I know every single part of my Garron, and if _a man_ thinks to fuck with me, _he should think again_.”

With that, she stuck her Blow Pop back into her mouth, and walked out into the humid Braavosi sunshine. He had just enough time to scoot out from under the car to see her stick her hands into her short overalls, and watch her feet dance like a cat's across the Canal Bridge.

~~~***~~~

He finished the work a few hours later, closed the shop, and helped himself to a cold beer in the refrigerator of the studio apartment he kept above the business.

As ever, he glanced at the photographs of his adopted father, sister, and brothers, and tipped the bottle in their direction. Their father had taught them - orphans all - everything he knew about mechanics, while he went about his daily work in The Black and White Body Shop.

Despite this, his sister had chosen to become a physician, and one of the boys had gone on to a successful career in the theatre. The rest had elected to take on The Black and White Body Shop alongside the old man.

It was a passion to open up the guts of a vehicle and see what had gone wrong and make it right again. Some things were simply right or wrong, working or not working, black or white; a vehicle either took to a fix, or it didn’t. It took skill and patience to coax out damage and repair it.

And looking at his profit margins for the month, he allowed himself a smile: he was fucking good at putting things in the black.

Unfortunately, it took much more fortitude to handle customers whose long-term poor management, habitual cost-cutting, and downright daily abuse of their vehicles could not be hidden from a man’s gaze.

And then the inevitable pushiness.

_Could a man fix it cheap?_

_Could a man fix it fast?_

_Could a man fix it for good?_

Maddening, the questions. Infuriating, the lack of patience. Intolerable, the absence of hindsight, and the inevitable dearth of foresight.

And so, he had come up with the Standard Rate for new customers.

If they didn’t like the terms, they never came back.

He licked his lips, tasting the day’s salt on his lips. He had never gotten a look at the Garron’s owner. Instead, his brother had accepted the job, then laughed over the phone yesterday morning, saying, “She’s all yours, bro. Showed up this morning. Such a sweet ride.”

Unacceptable.

“If a man accepted the booking---” he began, irritation in his voice making his accent thick and violent. The shop rules were that those who accepted the client explained the Standard Rate, then took them on from beginning to end. And well his brother knew it.

“Nope, no can do,” his brother cut him off. “Day off. Check the calendar – I’m off to the Purple Harbor. She’s all yours. See ya!”

He thought of the Garron and all its features, original to the manufacturer: the beautiful Silversmoke Gray colour, its polished chrome, and the black ‘pony package’ interior, which featured embossed garrons, the famous Northern ponies, across the black seat covers. It was well maintained. Beloved, even.

But the girl’s voice had been young. Much too young to handle a vintage pony car like an original Garron.

She had declared she knew every part of it. He closed his eyes, and rewound the sound of her voice.

“ _I know every single part of my Garron…_ ”

**Truth.**

_"…and if a man thinks to fuck with me, he should think again."_

He examined this closely, looking for the tiny grain of…

_"…if a man thinks to fuck with me…"_

**Lie.**

He opened his eyes, and for the first time all day, he felt a slow, lazy grin spread across his face.

He had just had a wicked idea for what the payment for this customer's Standard Rate would be. 


	2. In which a deal is struck

She came back early the next morning swinging her hips comfortably in her shortened overalls and a cropped t-shirt that said #NotToday. She staked out a good hiding place across the canal at the Water Dancer Café and ordered the milky coffee. She scowled as she dunked the hard cantuccini into her hot drink. Who was that infuriating man, and when would his stupid garage open? 

A body slid into the window seat next to her, and she glanced over. The man was lean with hard muscles, and much taller than her. His expressionless eyes took in everything across the canal in a single sweep as he sipped an espresso. Then they slid over to her, and she quickly averted her gaze.

She covered her flush with her large mug, trying not to burn herself or spill the contents. She contented herself with staring at his thighs, where she fancied she could almost trace the muscles of his thick quadriceps through the fabric of his gray utility trousers.

She glanced up again through her lashes when he turned his head, and she saw a flash of white hiding within his auburn hair. The hair was unnerving as it caught the morning light through the windowpane, where it seemed to pulse like arterial blood. She was no stranger to red hair, but she couldn’t stop staring. It wasn’t as bright as her sister’s, nor as opulent as her mother’s. 

It was just… wrong.

The strands of white in the rivers of blood moved, and then his eyes were upon her. She froze.

“Lovely girl,” he purred with amusement. She knew that voice. 

“You smile like a serial killer,” she retorted.

He was surprised, and the façade of his face slammed down. Her thick brown eyebrows came up; she was surprised too.

A pause.

“How’s my car?”

“In a man’s shop.”

She sat very still and breathed for a moment. Then she said, “Well, what’re we waiting for?”

He looked at her as he considered his next move.

Like two predators unsure of what might happen next, she never let her eyes wander too far from his hands as she carefully picked up her satchel. He kept his eyes on her fingers as she left a tip for the waitress. 

Then she sauntered out the door, deliberately turning her back to him. She told herself that she wasn’t afraid, and that the puff of air she felt across her neck was just the morning fog rolling across the canal.

He was a gentleman; he let her walk ahead at her pace, and didn’t assume anything by opening doors for her. He opened the office door, and then clicked the lock behind them. 

Her pale eyes returned to his, and he saw her swallow. He moved slowly behind the desk, giving her plenty of space, and kept his eyes on hers. No sudden movements. Nothing to spook her further. Keeping the desk between them and standing across from her, he said, “Does a lovely girl know the Standard Rate?”

She shook her head, and he saw her tremble. Every instinct was on alert to fight or flee. 

“This shop is special. Every new customer has one opportunity to become a client by paying the Standard Rate. Otherwise, they remain simply customers, or never return.”

“What is the Standard Rate?”

“Anything the shop asks.”

Her pale eyes screwed up in disbelief. 

“That’s ridiculous! You could charge anything! Do anything to them!”

He nodded once, and said nothing further.

“And people actually _agree_ to this?” 

He tilted his head, and then looked around the walls of the interior around them. It was lined with awards from vintage roadshows and photographs of people she realised she recognised from the tabloids: the late President Robert Baratheon with his sour-faced First Lady Cersei, draped across a classic black and gold Destrier; her brother, the footballer Jamie Lannister, in sunglasses but still easily recognisable, next to a timeless cherry red and yellow Charger; and the rock star Oberyn Martell of the emo trash band The Red Vipers, brooding next to an achingly gorgeous orange flamed vintage Sand Steed, his stunning partner Ellaria Sand and their eight children flashing perfect white teeth at the camera.

Every photograph was signed with various scribbles of _Thanks to the House of Black and White_ , whatever that meant.

He waited patiently for her to take it all in. 

“All of them are your clients?”

He shrugged.

“A man cannot say. A contract is sacred.”

She rolled her eyes. “You mean, Braavos law stipulates you can’t just reveal what a client paid for a service, or who that client was.”

“A man cannot say,” he said piously, eyes lifted to the ceiling and a smirk around his mouth. Then he pinned her with his gaze.

“What will a lovely girl do?” he asked.

“What will you ask of me?” she replied.

They didn’t know who had started it or precisely when it had begun, but they had found themselves circling each other like sharks around the desk. 

“A lovely girl could just pay in cash,” he mused.

“How much?” 

He named a figure, and she howled in outrage.

“A lovely girl should not have let problems develop in her brakes.” 

She stiffened. He had her, and they both knew it. The Garron had developed a spongey feeling in the brake pedal, but she had seen no loss of brake fluid. The feeling in the pedal had only gotten worse in the past month's travels; worried, she had brought it to The Black and White Body Shop and hoped it was nothing serious.

“A dual master cylinder must be fabricated and swapped for the old, single master cylinder. It will take time. Some parts can be re-used, others adapted for use.”

She growled. 

“Is it the brake lines, the wheel cylinders, or the master cylinder?”

He chuckled. 

“Would a lovely girl like to check for herself?”

‘Of course she would,’ he thought with pleasure. 

She ripped the door into the garage floor open, muttering obscenities under her breath as she found the row of dusty gray coveralls hanging on hooks on a wall. She quickly unclipped her overalls and neatly stepped out of them, grumbling to herself about con-artists and air in her brake lines.

He stood momentarily dumbfounded as he took in her boyshort-cut underwear, which read _'Eat Me!'_ over her mound. She didn't seem to remember or care as he walked past while she stepped into one of his brothers' coveralls. When she leaned over, he saw the print over her ass, which read, _'It Won't Spank Itself'_.

Smothering a laugh, he turned his back as he slipped off his shoes and unzipped his trousers. She turned her head to peek at him as he stepped into his own faded gray coveralls. 

‘Holy Seven,’ she thought, as she took in his thick muscles, the dark hair along his calves and the back of his thighs, and a truly beautiful ass just begging to be pinched or bitten. He wore dark, closely fitted underwear, and she wanted so badly for him to turn around so she could see what he was packing in the front that she had stopped moving.

She shook herself and tried to focus on dressing herself, tsking as she found her borrowed coveralls were much too long in the arms and legs. She sat down on the nearby bench to roll them back.

“Why can’t you just order new parts?” she groused, not at all convinced that he wasn’t conning her. 

“The dual master cylinder must be back-ordered and come from the west, where it is manufactured. It would not arrive for many months. An original single master cylinder, if one could be found in Essos, is an option… but a lovely girl would likely find herself in this situation again. Perhaps her Garron would no longer have functional rear or front brakes?”

He had come close to her, his voice dipping lower and with added heat with ever more frightening scenarios.

“Perhaps it would happen on the road? Late at night? Maybe in the Dothraki lands, long before a lovely girl could find a suitable body shop, hmm?” 

He looked into her eyes, and she met his gaze, ounce for ounce.

“A single master cylinder is a liability, lovely girl. It is only a matter of time.”

She thinned her lips and said, “Did you bleed the brakes?”

He rolled his eyes but let her pass. He walked to his tools and picked up a clear glass jar holding pale brown liquid and a tube sticking out of it. He gently shook it at her.

Growling, she walked over to the hood of the Garron and called out to the man, saying, “What’s your name?”

“Jaqen H’ghar.”

“I’m Arya. Arya Stark.”

She said it like it meant something, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a power and challenge in her narrowed eyes. 

He just nodded and stalked over to the passenger side rear tire, where he began to lay out his tools and the equipment in silence. 

“Oh, if I agree to take your Standard Rate, I'll work on my car with you, and I want half of whatever it is that you ask in return.”

He paused. He was crouched over his roll of sockets and wrenches when he saw a pair of beat-up Converse trainers come closer. He looked up and his jaw was set with mulish discontent. No customer had ever, ever been such a pain in the ass.

“You know I’ll make the work go faster,” she pointed out hastily.

He reached for the calm lake deep in his mind as he stared in disbelief at the irritating audacity of the girl. 

“And you never know, I might even teach you a few things!” 

As soon as the words left her lips, she winced. She had no idea why she was baiting him, but seeing him at her feet, dumbfounded with her proposal, had made her bold. 

“Fifteen percent,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, but the chill of it crossed her anyway.

“Forty percent,” she instantly countered. She’d gone through worse snowstorms than whatever he could conjure. She was almost certain of it.

“Twenty-five percent,” he replied. “Final offer, or a girl will pay in cash.”

“Done,” she squeaked.

She offered her arm in the Northern style to seal the deal, but he just glared at her. 

As he turned away, she said, “Wait!” She darted to her overalls and quickly returned. Grabbing his hand, she pressed something into it with a big smile.

“There! The deal is sealed.”

He looked down to see something called an Alchemist Blow Pop in his hand.

“What the hell is this?”

“Oh, it’s definitely your flavor,” she called out as she grabbed his unopened bottle of brake fluid and popped the hood of her Garron, no doubt looking for the master cylinder. 

He turned the lollipop over. 

_Black Ice._ It sounded disgusting. He tucked it into his pocket, vowing never to eat it.

“Hey!” he heard her shout from under the hood. “What kind of music do you like?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, looking for his inner lake of calm.

“I can hook your computer up with my Speckify account, if you don’t have one.”

It was going to be a very, very long day in Braavos.


End file.
